


in altera vita

by EternalFire185



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic, Emotional Hurt, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fred Lives, Post-Series, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slice of Life, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-08-27 01:05:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8381983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalFire185/pseuds/EternalFire185
Summary: The magics the govern life and death are ancient, and their effects are unpredictable. When Hermione saves Fred's life during the Battle for Hogwarts, it has some unintended consequences for them both.





	1. Chapter 1

A curse had struck hard stone and shattered it, sending pieces large enough to crush raining down on his head. It had buried him and smothered him and left nothing of his sharp smile and flaming hair to be seen. But hope is a hard thing to kill. So she had dug him out, working with others whose faces she couldn’t remember, levitating stones and pushing them away with her bare hands until her palms and fingers were scraped and bleeding. When she found him, he was dead, his heart stopped and his face still as the stone he had been killed under. Someone wailed when they saw him. The world wasn’t warm enough without Fred Weasley, and so maybe without even knowing what she was doing, Hermione started CPR. 

It was the muggle way of doing things, but Hermione was no mediwizard and there were none around to help, so she couldn’t do anything but press her hands on his still chest until she could feel his ribs creak and crack under her fingers. He was dead for two minutes, and then all of a sudden he wasn’t. He didn’t open his eyes, or do much of anything but begin to breathe again, his heartbeat weak but real under her fingertips. She left him lying there, shouting for someone else to come and take over while she ran off to re-join the fighting. Blood was smeared on his pale cheek, and she wasn’t sure if it was hers or his. 

She didn’t think of him again until the end of the battle, Harry alive and Voldemort’s corpse a still thing on the ground. That was when she let herself weep to have been able to keep as many of them as she had. No one with red hair was laying in the rows of the dead and it had to be enough, because Teddy Lupin was an orphan now, and her parents would never remember her name. It had to be enough. 

Fred was still unconscious, and George was at his side, not weeping, but whispering something into his twin’s ear, his fingers wrapped tight around Fred’s wrist like he was leading him somewhere, or keeping him in place. The smile on his face didn’t quite reach his eyes. When he saw Hermione and the tears on her face, the smile turned to something more genuine, more soft, and too achingly grateful to bear. 

She settled to the ground near him, tucking a stray curl behind her ear and turned away from the sight of both of them, of the hall, of all of the people mourning the dead, and too beaten down to truly celebrate the end of the war that had darkened all of their lives. She looked toward the light streaming through the windows and the holes blasted in the solid rock of the place that had been her second home for most of a decade. 

She didn’t notice Fred’s eyes open weakly, his pale fingers stretching out to close the distance between them and touch the bare skin of her side revealed by the gap between her jumper and her jeans. Like the spark of static electricity, something jolted from his fingers to her hip, and she turned to look at them, the echo of electricity thrumming through their three connected bodies. Hermione found two shocked pairs of blue eyes locked on her face, two spots of color blooming on Fred’s otherwise pale cheeks. 

She opened her mouth to speak, without quite knowing what in the world she would say, but her words were cut off before they could begin, Harry calling out to her. She rose to her feet, turned on her heel and fled. 

Ron and Harry were standing together, looking at the wand held in Harry’s hand, but when she approached at what could charitably be called a trot, Harry glanced up. His eyes flicked between herself and where she had been. She didn’t dare look back to see what kind of state the twins were in behind her. Ron remained oblivious until she nearly bumped into him. He put out a hand to steady her, catching her hand in his. 

Hermione flinched away, expecting another shock, but felt only Ron’s warm, rough fingers against her suddenly sweaty palm. 

“You ok ‘Mione?” Ron asked weakly, but didn’t wait for her response. A pleasant answer was pretty rare these days. 

“We were going to talk about the Elder Wand,” Harry said, with a jerk of his head to indicate stepping out of the hall, “away from all this.” The look on his face was too somber, too hollow for someone who had just won a war. Appropriate, perhaps, for someone who had recently died. She couldn’t do much but follow the two of them mutely out of the hall. 

Behind her the twins watched her disappearing figure, hair bursting from a braid, grime covering every inch they could see. She slipped out of the hall with Harry and Ron in tow. 

“Bloody hell Forge, what just happened?” George’s voice was strained, a feeling like roiling water still unsettling his stomach. Fred could do little more than nod weakly in agreement. 

“Bloody hell.”


	2. Chapter 2

Putting the world back together was an ugly and disjointed affair. After all the upheaval of Voldemort’s take-over of the Ministry, there was room for unprecedented restructuring and evolution of magical society. Rather, in fear, people tried to cling to things that they knew and were familiar with. But the corruption of the Death Eaters, who had wormed their way into every part of the Ministry, had rotted it to the core. Trying to piece together a functioning government was a nightmare, and people had begun looking to her, the brightest witch of her age, to hold it all together. 

To be quite honest, she was too tired to do it. She was too shattered to return to Hogwarts, too horrified to think about becoming a mediwizard, too scarred to become an auror. The bright future she’d dreamed of for so many years, was tarnished now, tainted by all the people who’d had to die to give it to her. 

So instead she’d hidden at the Burrow, pretending that the outside world didn’t exist, letting her ugly red scars fade to silver. Time helped with the nightmares, with the cold sweats and mood swings. She stopped dropping dishes in a sudden fright (which Molly was happy for), and her attention span grew so that she could read a whole book again. Before the war, which seemed like another life, she would have gone crazy to sit around for days and weeks and do nothing but lounge in the garden, drink tea and read nonsense books. But now it was a blessing, to listen to the silence and forget the screams. 

Ron was the first to go stir crazy. She didn’t even notice his quiet brooding for the first few days, his sighs when she simply left meals without explanation, or the way that he looked at Harry, who was even more broken than she, trying to fit the jagged pieces of his life back together. She only heard him yelling at his mother one afternoon, didn’t hear what he said. He came storming out of the Burrow, eyes flashing, and pulled up short in front of her, chest heaving. He grabbed her upper arms, looked into her eyes and then crushed his lips against hers. 

If he had tried something like it a few months prior, her panic would have made her claw at him and push him away. Now she was too numb to do much of anything except to let him kiss her. She remembered feeling so much exhilaration at the thought that she and Ron finally had some common ground, that he could be the kind of person who she could see herself with. Their first kiss, standing on the precipice of real war had been wonderful, warm and sweet and ripe with promise. 

But something fundamental had shifted inside of her, and they didn’t quite fit together anymore, like mismatched puzzle pieces. She let him kiss her, but it was nothing more than the movement of his mouth against hers. Her heart was quiet and cold in her chest. Eventually his lips stilled against hers, and he pulled away. He looked at his shoes. 

“I guess its over then, eh ‘Mione. Good luck.” He turned on his heel and walked away, apparating when he was beyond the wards that still protected the house and garden. She just watched where he had gone until Ginny came up to her elbow, placing a warm hand on her shoulder. 

“He needed to go. He just needs... he needs to do something else and try to move on.”  
“I understand... I... There wasn’t anything here for him.” Hermione turned, letting Ginny’s hand fall off her shoulder. 

She was grateful for Ginny, could never repay her for the help that she gave to Harry. Harry had died, had been possessed with a piece of the soul of a murderer, had seen his friends and loved ones lay down their lives for him. Ginny was gentle but firm, leading him out of darkness with loving hands. But their closeness was as much a source of isolation as it was a source of strength. Hermione was unsurprised when they left, not in a rush like Ron, but with much wringing of hands and packing and unpacking. Molly was distraught. She sniffled through dinner, a few stray tears dripping into the mashed potatoes she’d so lovingly made. 

Nevertheless, she let him go, with a crushing hug and promises that they would be back every week for Sunday dinner. Then it was just Hermione, Molly and Arthur, haunting a house made for 9. 

She was reading by the pond, letting the weak late winter sun warm her face, wrapped in blankets and bolstered by a quick warming charm, when she heard the back door open and close behind her. Molly generally left her alone, only bringing snacks and drinks out to wherever she was hiding that particular day, saying nothing if the trays were left untouched. But this intruder was loud, boisterous even, laughter sounding from behind her, from a conversation she wasn’t privy to. The sound of it sent a wave of goose pimples rising on her flesh. 

“Hiya, Hermione!” She didn’t need to look around to know that it was Fred, but she did regardless, to see his face. His blue eyes were sparkling with mirth, and his face was set in his familiar grin, but she could see the shadow of concern in the set of his eyebrows. He had grown out his brilliant red hair, to cover his ears, just like she imagined George had. Still, they would never truly be identical again, with fresh scars bisecting his right eyebrow and cutting through his left lower lip, lending his smirk a more sardonic edge. 

He strolled over, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a biscuit out to her, a few crumbs on his jumper evidence of his own snacking. “Mum’s been worried since you didn’t eat breakfast, so you should have some. It’ll get her off my back.” She tried to smile, to graciously accept what she was sure would be a delicious biscuit, and chat with Fred about the darkening sky, which she thought might be threatening snow. But she couldn’t seem to school her features in the right way, achieving something closer to a grimace. Fred’s eyebrows furrowed, and the outstretched hand fell to his side. 

“Fred...”

“You know, I was thinking,” he interrupted, a new grin on his face as if nothing was amiss. “George and I are reopening the shop, but there so much to do... we could use some help.” 

“You’re reopening the shop? Now?” He looked at her seriously, his blue eyes searching her face. 

“Now,” he nodded, “don’t you think the world could use a little laughter?” She hadn’t laughed in months, couldn’t remember the way it felt in her mouth. “What do you say ‘Mione?” She managed a small smile this time, managed to feel it too. 

“How could I refuse?” She started to rise, but stumbled and nearly fell onto the soft earth. She had some occasional numbness and weakness in her left side, some loss of feeling in her left fingers and toes. Side effects of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus curse. Fred’s strong hand grabbed her wrist, keeping her from falling, fingers touching the skin just beyond the edge of her sleeve. The force of the magic that swept over her pulled the air out of her lungs, sent her heart racing. She wrenched her arm away, nearly sending Fred reeling, who was looking at her like he had never seen her before. 

“Static shock,” she offered weakly, smoothing her blouse down and gathering her blanket and book, all while ignoring Fred’s eyes burning a hole into the back of her head. “When do I start?”

“Monday,” he offered, his voice hollow. She didn’t turn, tucking her things under her arm and scurrying toward the house. 

“See you then!” she called over her shoulder, leaving a rather started Weasley standing in the garden, staring at the closing door.


	3. Chapter 3

Well, she thought to herself, there’s nowhere to run now. Before her loomed Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, the street largely empty, and the windows of the surrounding buildings dark. She might have arrived a few hours earlier than she had planned, but she’d had nothing left to occupy her time and she’d been unaccountably nervous. She’d shrunk her things, mostly books, and placed them in her beaded bag which was hanging weightlessly by her side. When that was finished there was nothing else to do except pace in the kitchen and get in Molly’s way. Eventually Molly had shooed her away with a crushing hug, a kiss on the cheek and a napkin full of treats to tide her over until lunch. 

“Go, Hermione dear, I’ll see you this Sunday. Family dinner.”

She walked up to the front door, painted magenta, and went to knock, knuckles poised to strike against the hard wood. She hesitated there for a long minute, long enough to draw a stare from a witch passing by in lemon colored robes. Finally, she shook herself. She was being ridiculous. Ridiculous! She was Hermione Granger for Merlin’s sake, a fully grown woman, a talented witch. She wasn’t going to stand shaking in her boots on the doorstep of a couple of tricksters. She rapped her knuckles smartly on the frame of the door before she could think about it again, then stepped back to wait, smoothing her cream colored blouse and pushing back a curl that had slipped from her tight bun. 

Absolutely no one came to the door. She got the irrational urge to scream. Instead she stepped back to the door and knocked (pounded) again. The door swung open so fast she nearly fell through and into the arms of a rather grumpy bare-chested Weasley. 

“Cor Hermione, do you know what time it is?” She felt a small blush blooming on her cheeks, both for clearly waking him, and her proximity to the flat planes of his chest. She stuck out her chin, studiously ignoring the freckles sprinkled across the expanse of skin at eye level. 

“Half seven George, now move your massive bulk out of the way.” She brushed past him, standing stunned in the doorway, just making it inside before his boisterous laughter came from behind her. She couldn’t stop the grin creeping on her face, and the way it stretched her cheeks was a pleasant, if unfamiliar ache. They walked through the shop, empty shelves and dusty counters standing in silent witness, and up the stairs, George taking them two at a time. 

“What in the bloody...” Fred emerged through the door just as they arrived, hair thoroughly mussed, barefoot and also shirtless. “Oh, Hermione... I. Uh, good morning?” Fred at least had the decency to look a bit embarrassed at being caught in his pants. 

“Good morning Fred. Have any tea?” Fred nodded, off to fiddle with a kettle, while George lounged at the table in the kitchenette, a grin still in place. She took the calm moment to look around the flat, which was modest but lovely. The sitting room, kitchen and dining room were all one large open area, the kitchen in mauve and the sitting room in a deep green. A hall lead off from the kitchen toward what she assumed were bedrooms and a bathroom. At least, she assumed that there would be two bedrooms. Right?

“Tea?” Fred offered, and she took the proffered cup, careful to keep their fingers from meeting around its edge and taking a rather large and scalding gulp. She dropped into a chair at the dining table. Fred and George exchanged a glance, the meaning of which she would never be able to read. 

“Well,” George began, “we weren’t thinking of getting started quite so early,” 

“But now that you’re here, perhaps you’d like to hear the master plan?” Fred finished with a wink. She nodded, feeling inexplicably eager. 

“Well... most of the stock we had before the war is spoiled or stolen, and we don’t have many ingredients still around.” 

“And then we need to get back to product design. It’ll be a relief to be able to invent without having to worry about whether it will find its way into the wrong hands, or thinking about war application.” George was nodding along, and Hermione was a little surprised to see them doing anything so seriously, especially so early in the morning. Fred was listing ingredients off to George seemingly off the top of his head, and George was taking quick notes on a pad of paper he’d found lying around. 

“What’s my role in this master plan?” They both looked up, almost as if they had forgotten she was there. 

“Well that’s a good question...” Fred intoned, both men leaning back simultaneously, stroking imaginary beards. 

“We honestly do need help just getting the shop in order, purchasing new supplies, thinking about new products. It’s a tall order, even for two such talented wizards as ourselves,” George supplied.

“And who better to help than Hogwarts’ best and brightest. Blimey Hermione, if you put your brain to it, there’s no telling what we could think up,” Fred said, and the honesty of it (with only a hint of teasing) made her blush, which seemed to be a record number in the past thirty minutes. 

“Well,” she said, standing and brushing imaginary dust off of her jeans, “that sounds like an excellent place to start.” They stood as well, both grinning. “More clothes might be appropriate, though.” She was gratified to see them blush for a change, and interested to see that it spread down to their necks and shoulders. 

“Don’t like what you see?” George recovered enough to say, leaning against Fred with some nonchalance, though the image was ruined by the pink still in his cheeks. Hermione scoffed with mock seriousness, brandishing a finger at the both of them. 

“You two don’t need any help with your egos. Now get your decidedly flabby arses into some trousers so we can get started.” They grinned at that, performing a synchronized turn and sauntering towards the bedrooms. Hermione certainly did not look at their bums as they left. Certainly not. 

She found herself giggling, and she couldn’t quite remember when it had happened last. With a happy sigh she drew her wand out of the pocket of her jeans, and went through the door to the shop, closing it behind her. It was much more gray inside there, where the light didn’t filter through the windows, which were streaked with grime. Hermione thought that it didn’t appear that anyone had been in there since before the war had broken out in earnest. 

The single thought of the war was like cold water on her happy mood, sending a small shiver down her back. This was just like hundreds of other shops that remained closed throughout magical Britain, whose owners were dead or if living, had possessed no will to return to their pre-war life. She could feel the edge of sorrow, just on her peripheral, waiting to creep back in. Instead she brandished her wand and set to banishing all the dust and filth she could see. She was so absorbed in the task, enjoying the feel of casting again, that she didn’t hear someone approaching down the stairs. A hand settled on her shoulder without warning, sending a buzzing sensation down her arm. 

She stifled a scream, spinning on her heel and jamming the business end of her wand under the jaw of the aggressor. George’s eyes were saucers, his hands up in surrender. 

“I’m so sorry ‘Mione, I should have thought... I didn’t mean to scare you.” She dropped her arm with a shuddering breath, her wand falling from dead fingers to clatter on the floor. Fear raced through her veins like ice. 

“I... I could have hurt you,” she whispered, voice trembling. George stooped to grab her wand, reaching out towards her limp hand. 

“Can I touch you?” She nodded numbly, fighting to calm her racing heart. He placed the wood, warm to her touch, back into her hand and curled her fingers around it. 

He looked her in the eyes, then slowly leaned forward and enveloped her in a hug. For a long moment he was still, simply letting her relax into the embrace. After a long minute, he spoke. “I’m sorry. I promise, you’re safe now.” The warmth of him leeched the tension from her spine until she felt boneless, like she could breathe again. He pulled back, sliding his hands down her arms until his hands engulfed her smaller ones. Her skin buzzed under his fingertips. “Ok?”

“I’m ok,” she managed. He didn’t say anything, just raised a single eyebrow. She managed a smile at that. “I’ll be ok.” He grinned. 

“That’s all any of us can hope for. Now,” he brandished a list which he appeared to have pulled from thin air, “ready to get started?” She squeezed his hands, earning a broader smile. 

“As I’ll ever be.”


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione sat cross-legged in the storeroom, glass bottles littering the floor, half dusty and jumbled and the other half polished and standing in neat rows. 

“Hermioneeeee,” came the singsong from the flat. A parade of footsteps followed, announcing the approach of one twin. A head topped with flaming red hair popped in a few seconds later; Fred. “Tea?” Her stomach growled at the thought of food, and Fred quirked an eyebrow with a grin. She placed her rag down on top of her itemized list, rising carefully to keep from upsetting any of the glass bottles. 

“Tea sounds lovely.” 

“After you mademoiselle,” he gestured up the stairs with a bow and she curtsied back, covering her own grin with a cough. She could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t particularly convinced. Up the stairs and on the kitchen table was an excellent assortment of sandwiches and biscuits, and if they were placed perhaps a touch too close to the potion bubbling on the end of the table, well, who was she to complain. 

She grabbed a biscuit and curled up on the kitchen chair, tucking her feet up under her, and surveyed the controlled chaos all around her. There were stacks of parchment, some which she knew to be lists of all of the remaining product that had survived the war, some were lists of what had been on display before the store had closed, and the rest were random notes scribbled on scraps of paper for what they would create. 

“Some of the old classics,” George had told her, 

“And some new, of course. It’ll be good to flex those inventing muscles again,” Fred had finished. 

They had been discarding old and spoiled product, ordering new ingredients and creating some of their old recipes with surprising efficiency. Skiving Snackboxes had already been and placed under preserving charms (Hermione was rather good at them), and were lining the shelves, waiting to be sold. Currently they were working on trying to perfect a gumdrop that made one giggle uncontrollably. 

So far it had caused Fred to laugh, big belly laughs, until he’d cried and begged for the antidote, but it had only given Hermione the hiccoughs. 

They hoped to be open in a week, building their supplies as they sold product. Hermione knew the budget was stretched terribly thin, but the twins were optimistic. Or, at least, they appeared to be. They were jovial, joking with one another, Fred leaning back with his feet crossed on the table, gesturing with the sandwich in his hand. George was leaning over, hands on his knees, laughing at something Fred had said. Hermione felt herself smiling at the two of them, something which had been growing more and more familiar with every passing day. Her cheeks had ached that first night, the muscles unused to the strain. 

Their chatter was interrupted by a knock on the store door, a tentative rap of knuckles. 

“I’ll get it,” she found herself saying. She stood, laying her hand on George’s shoulder as she passed, a simple gesture that she had picked up without quite realizing it. Contact with him sent a pleasant, and now familiar, buzzing up her arm. She couldn’t manage to make herself touch Fred, remembering the lightening his skin sent through her veins. She didn’t catch the stricken look on Fred’s face as she passed. 

As she descended the stairs to the store, she caught a glimpse of a small shadow through the front glass window. A second, decidedly more impatient, rap of knuckles sounded on the front door. She swung the door open to find a small boy, blonde hair in mussed curls, his brown eyes striking in his pale, round face. He grinned up at her, missing his two front teeth. 

“’Ello. Is the store open?” She blinked down at him, and before she could say anything he had slipped past her and into the still mostly empty store. 

“Um, no, we’re not quite open yet,” she informed him, regretfully. He ignored her. Instead he ran up to a close display and pulled down a low box, an Aviatomobile. 

“Can I get this, pretty please?” Hermione found that she couldn’t quite say no. 

“Well of course you can, mate,” Fred said, as he came abreast of her (nearly startling her to death), and knelt down to the child’s level. “We haven’t had our Grand Opening just yet, but you can be our first customer.”

“I have money!” The boy held out a small fist full of coins, and Hermione could see from where she stood that he was a few knuts short. 

“Bup bup bup, free of charge, our little secret. Just do me one favor.” The child looked on the verge of grateful tears, or maybe laughter, or maybe both. 

“Anything,” he whispered. Fred put one long finger along the side of his nose. 

“Tell all your friends, Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, opening next Wednesday.” The blonde boy’s response was a mess of babbling and giggling that apparently Fred was able to interpret because he was nodding along and interjecting a word or two whenever there was a pause for breath, ushering the boy out the door. As soon as it was shut, he turned with a relieved exhale. “Geez Hermione, try not to give all our product away!” 

“Wha- Fred!” He was laughing at her, blue eyes sparkling. 

“Only joking. I think our first sale was a success.” He went to drape his arm over her shoulders, just the way his brother had done only yesterday when she had said something particularly clever. She tried to stop herself, but she flinched away from his arm, and it fell limply to Fred’s side. His easy smile slid off of his face. “Did I do something wrong Hermione?” 

“No! Oh no Fred.”  
“Well, it’s just...” a flush spread across his cheeks, but he looked dejected, “you don’t seem to have any problems with George.” Suddenly she had to say something to explain herself, to fix his miserable expression. 

“It’s just... surely you’ve noticed what happens when we touch?” 

“Of course,” he started, “but you’d never said anything and I half believed that I had dreamt it.” He reached out, and she let him catch her fingers in his hand. Electricity, so hot it felt cold, raced up her arm, and she couldn’t bite back her sharp cry at the contact. She meant to pull away, but he caught her hand with his other, staring into her eyes. “Wait,” he ground out, “let’s see if it gets better.” The energy rippled, responding to her panic, but Fred was murmuring soft words she couldn’t quite make out, his eyes never leaving hers. Finally, she let her eyes slide closed, and let herself fully experience the bright pain of the magic moving through her. 

Her fear was making it more erratic, so she fought to slow her breathing, and felt the surging slow in response. With her eyes closed, she could focus on her own magical core. She couldn’t see it of course, but in her mind’s eye she had always visualized a glowing pool of pure silver, deep within her person. Now it was roiling and bubbling, melding with and responding to a foreign energy which was feeding into her, uncontrolled. 

“It’s our magic, it’s... connected somehow. Try and pull yours back.” She didn’t see Fred closing his eyes, but she did feel his magic begin to slow, going back to the normal rhythm of his heartbeat. The two sources of energy were still connected, through their clasped hands, but the pain receded, to be replaced with a reckless energy, almost euphoria. Hermione had never felt so much magic before. She felt invincible. 

Without warning, she felt a something foreign reaching out, taking hold of some of her magic, and pulling it like taffy. Her eyes shot open and she saw Fred, grinning like a maniac and levitating every box of product in the room, wordlessly. 

Her surprise sent a ripple through their connected magical cores, and the spell faltered, causing the packages to settle back to their shelves, but Fred’s grin remained firmly in place. 

“How in bloody hell did you know how to do that?” Fred laughed out loud at her profanity, or perhaps just because they were both still thrumming with energy. 

“George and I. It’s nothing like this, but we can tap into each other’s magic just a bit. It’s why we’re... well, why we are like we are.” As if summoned, George burst through the door and onto the stairs, breathless. 

“Fred, what happened, I felt...” He stopped, mid-step, looking at the both of them, flushed and standing with their hands clasped. “Well, I think you two have some explaining to do.”


	5. Chapter 5

It was a familiar frustration, surrounded by books, none of which contained any answers to her questions. She remembered being a little girl and believing that books held all the knowledge in the world, just waiting for her to seek it out. Fred and George had been supportive, if not particularly helpful. 

“We looked for years ‘Mione, to see if we could figure out...” Fred gestured vaguely between himself and his brother. 

“This,” George finished. 

“It’s just, gifts like these were generally well kept secrets.”

“They made families powerful, and they made them targets too,” George shrugged. “We heard about a few rumors, but nothing concrete or well recorded.”

“We learned that the Weasleys tended to have a lot of twins, and we think that a lot of them were probably like us, but... not much more than that. We eventually gave up...” Fred’s voice trailed away with some noncommittal gestures. 

Silence stretched between the three of them for a long time, before George spoke, his voice strangely hollow. “The magics the govern life and death are older than we can imagine, and their effects are unpredictable.” The look on Fred’s face had been unreadable as he’d studied her, stoic as he spoke. 

“When you saved me, something changed within us both.” 

Eventually she had laid her useless books to rest, and abandoned her fruitless quest to understand the connection that linked her to the two men who now monopolized her time. Eventually she allowed herself to slip back into the rhythm of inventing and producing and preserving with the two of them. She let the ease of it slough off the shadows that had been clinging to her, dragging her into the earth. She even came to sleep through an entire night without nightmares, more than once, and to wake without her muscles rigid from fear felt like a victory. 

The person that she was returning to, rediscovering underneath the scar tissue of the trauma of the war, wasn’t the same Hermione. She wasn’t as pristine, or as rigid. To discover that you weren’t as you remembered wasn’t as terrifying as she might have imagined once. She was passing a shop window one day, returning from making a deposit at Gringotts, and the girl who stared back at her wasn’t her anymore. Before she could think about it for a second longer, she walked into a salon, metamorphosis on her mind. 

The witch there tsked at her limp locks, the tangled mess of which she hadn’t touched with wand or brush for ages, but once her scolding look subsided, she brandished a pair of Ever Sharp Scissors and got to work. The weight of the dense curls falling away with every cut of the scissors brought tears to her closed eyes, bittersweet. When the witch was done, Hermione opened her eyes and saw a frail girl in the mirror, too thin and too pale, with fading dark circles under her eyes and tear tracks on her cheeks. But she saw someone strong too, with eyes flashing and a grin just sharp enough to cut. 

Her hair was short, shorter than she had ever worn it before, trimmed almost to the skin on the sides, but left a bit longer on top. Nothing could tame her curls completely, but the length had relegated them to wild waves and a few stray ringlets that she might even dare to call elegant. The witch was beaming, and sternly coerced Hermione to promise to put a few potions on her hair, and use a few charms to contain her curls in the frequent Scottish rain. Hermione left, feeling lighter than she could remember feeling in years. 

When she walked into the shop Fred and George were chatting over the counter, taking notes on a list and passing it seamlessly between them as they talked. George caught sight of her first and stilled suddenly, causing Fred to turn and catch her eye. They both took a moment to appraise her, but she missed the way George’s eyes flashed between her face and Fred’s. Fred, who was standing on her side of the counter, approached her haltingly, like he was approaching an animal ready to dart away. And perhaps she was. He reached her, and his hand rose to the side of her face, his fingers brushing the softness of an errant ringlet and then falling to her collarbone. His fingertips sent a now-familiar electric thrill across her skin. 

“Cor Hermione... you look...” the warmth in his eyes brought heat to her cheeks. 

“You look like yourself,” George supplied, and she felt her own face stretch into a grin to match theirs. The ache of it felt like victory. 

They opened the shop just a few nights later on April 1st (the twins shrugged off all notion of a birthday party, despite her best efforts) to an enthusiastic, if slightly smaller than expected, crowd. The whole Weasley clan, even Percy, had been in attendance, Ginny pulling Harry in tow. Ron had managed to smile at her, and she had been happy to smile and wave, and gratified to see him blushing with a pretty blonde she didn’t recognize. 

Ginny had been glowing, saying nothing, but a simple silver band had been wrapped around her left ring finger. Molly had been furious, a ball of worry and frustration and fear too, fear for losing her children to their adult lives. Arthur had shushed her, quietly reminding her that they had been married at that age, which had mollified her. Still she had fretted for the rest of the night, smoothing the flaming hair of any child she could reach. 

Ginny had pulled Hermione aside, laughter sparkling in her brown eyes. 

“Don’t tell mum, because I think she might have a cow, but that’s not our only life-altering news.” Ginny placed a delicate hand on her still-flat stomach, and winked in a manner that reminded Hermione exactly of the twins. Hermione wrapped her in a hug, thinking of red-headed children and the breakneck pace with which life was barreling on past her. And if some of the red-headed children happened to have blue eyes, well, she didn’t consider it for too long. 

The Weasley clan had been the last to leave, well after midnight, and only after Ron and Percy managed to convince their mother that she didn’t have to clean every inch of the store herself. Hermione brought three mugs of tea, and she and Fred and George sat on the floor of the shop to drink them and unwind. She placed herself on the floor between them, leaning against a stack of boxes, letting each ankle rest against the nearest twin. It was still a distinctly unfamiliar feeling, to be so startlingly aware of her own magic, of the swirling energies of the two men, George’s an echo through the connection he had shared with his brother from birth. She could draw on their magic if she wanted to, cast spells with the added strength of the talented wizards.

Their minds could mingle like that too, sometimes strongly enough that the phantom sensations of their bodies in space made it difficult to tell where she began and where they ended. Now, she could barely feel them, their minds occupied, racing with excitement but blurred with exhaustion, humming just on the edge of her consciousness. Together they could dream up solutions to problems that none would have considered alone. 

Since they had begun testing the connection in earnest, they had completed the Giggling Gumdrops, and had perfected a charm that could cause otherwise inert objects to move, an inch at a time, whenever they were not being observed. It was a complex piece of spellwork, layering charms on top of one another, that (though she was loathe to admit it) she never could have completed alone. 

She hadn’t felt alone for a single moment in the last few weeks, and she was surprised to find that she didn’t mind it. She had been alone for long enough. 

There were drawbacks, of course. It was difficult to tell which thoughts were hers and which were influenced by one of the boys. She couldn’t read their minds, but she did get sudden thoughts or sensations that weren’t quite her own. She had woken in the middle of the night a few days prior, not from nightmares, but from the strongest craving for chips she’d ever had in her life. She’d stumbled into the kitchen to discover Fred snacking on leftovers from dinner at a pub. 

She pulled herself from her thoughts and dragged the two twins, who were still chattering in barely formed sentences that only the two of them (and now sometimes herself) could understand, up the stairs to their flat and shoved them towards bed. She felt their thoughts calm as she washed their dishes, and then finally fall to silence. When her head hit the pillow she was asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione had never had to hide an idea in her mind before, never had to guard her thoughts to keep someone from pulling out her secrets and showing them to light. She had practiced Occlumency only when she was on the run to find horcruxes, thinking of the horror she might face should someone delve into her mind and see just what it was that they were searching for. 

She’d never gotten particularly skilled at it, but still, some of the elements remained. In her mind’s eye she took her thoughts and bound them up tight, weighed them down with a heavy promise of silence and then cast them into the chill ocean, still as glass, to sink deep deep where no one could find them. 

It was, as one might imagine, quite difficult to keep a secret when you frequently shared mind space with two inquisitive individuals. Even with all her precautions, George had taken to absentmindedly rubbing the skin where his ear used to be, whenever he was lost in thought. 

Hermione had, for several weeks, been working on something. She had snuck away for stolen minutes while the boys were busy with the shop, which was bustling now even on slow days. The idea had begun gnawing at her when she’d had a nightmare about the Triwizard Tournament of all things, old fears of Harry’s demise related to more mundane causes, or as mundane as death by dragon can be. 

She had remembered Alastor Moody, his roughly hewn peg leg clacking along the cool stone of the floors of Hogwarts, and his electric blue eye spinning and bulging too large in its socket. For all that magic could cure and heal ordinary injury, those injuries caused by magic, and dark magic in particular, were often simply left as garish scars. What muggle prosthetics lacked in function (for no muggle eye could see through walls, or the back of one’s own head) they were vastly superior in returning to the user a sense of normalcy. 

Those thoughts had sent her head spinning with half formed ideas of amplification spells and transfiguration, and before she had known what she was doing, she was pulling obscure texts from the shelves of Flourish and Blotts, and compiling cross-referenced notes regarding magical use of mundane materials. 

The work was consuming, and when she finished she held in her hands a human ear, albeit molded from an inert plastic, which she knew to be an exact replica of the ear that had once rested on the side of George’s head. She had drawn significant inspiration from her work with the Twins on other projects, had borrowed ideas for layering spells and permanent sticking charms and spells which could be activated with a word. The transfiguration alone, she thought, would have made McGonnagal proud, particularly given the plastic’s resistance to spellwork. 

For reasons which she suspected had to do with the finicky (read nonsense) nature of magic itself, she had struggled to bind the spellwork to the plastic, until she had placed a single kneazel whisker inside the folds of the material as she worked it into shape, and finally, the magic had taken hold. The idea had come to her in a moment of inspiration, and she had simply run with it, thinking of the sometimes slapshod method through which the twins’ new inventions were born. 

Now she had a prosthesis which was not only shaped like a human ear, but was warm to the touch, could be attached and unattached at a word and would grow in size to match the other appendage. She had also modified a hearing restoration spell (though wizards and witches are hardy folk, and rarely go deaf with age, they did have a tendency to deafen themselves in spell and cauldron accidents) which – along with the shape of the prosthesis itself – would help restore some of the hearing which she knew George had lost when he had been cursed. She knew he was partially deafened without ever having to ask, just as she knew that Fred’s ribs ached just before it rained, and that they both craved sweets late at night. 

When she held the final product in her hand, she was both exorbitantly proud and breathless with fear. It had been one thing, to imagine George’s joy at being whole again, and another to present him with an unasked for gift which in many ways presupposed that he was unhappy. Still, she thought of the way the twins wore their hair now, long to cover their ears, and her resolve was strengthened. 

She presented the gift to him without fanfare, placed in a simple box she found lying around in the shop, during a lull in conversation at dinner. He opened the box with only a little hesitation, only to toss it back onto the table, his face a mask of horror. 

“What in the bloody hell is – “

“It’s not a real ear!” Hermione spat out, her voice comically high. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I made it for you, to go over your...” she gestured vaguely at the side of his head. “Not because you need it! Oh bollocks, this isn’t going well at all.” She dropped her eyes to the table to avoid his stunned expression. “I made you a prosthetic for the ear that you lost, because you deserve to be able to forget for a while if you want.”

She was studying the whorls in the grain of the wood of the table, waiting in vain for George to say something, but Fred exclaimed in fascination almost right away. He reached over and gingerly picked up the ear from where it had been flung free of the box. 

“It’s warm! And it feels like a human ear alright. Cor Hermione, that’s brilliant.” She flushed at the praise, and focused her attention on Fred, unable to meet George’s eyes. 

“It only ever stays the one temperature though. I tried to get it to adapt to the external temperature, but I couldn’t get the spell right. It kept freezing or catching fire.” George rose all at once, his chair scraping against the floor as he pulled away, then he marched around to where she sat and engulfed her in a hug. 

“Thank you ‘Mione,” he whispered in her ear, and she could hear the grin in his voice. When he pulled away his smile stretched across his face in perfect mirror of his twin’s and their happiness was infectious. 

“Try it on!” she urged, explaining the mechanism of the sticking spell in partial sentences, which the boys still seemed to grasp. “The current command word is ‘excitant’ but you can change it to whatever you want. I would just pick something you won’t use in common conversation. Don’t want your ear popping off during tea.” The wicked grin on Fred’s face made it plainly clear that occasionally George’s ear would be doing just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one this time. Sorry for the late update, it's been one hell of a week.


	7. Chapter 7

Fred and George were both quietly overjoyed when she regained her appetite. She had begun to finish entire (if undersized in their opinion) helpings of food, and even filch treats from their near endless supply of sweets. She was thoroughly embarrassed to have them paying any mind to her eating habits at all, but she had to admit that she felt better, that she finally had the energy to stay up all day without a nap and without the help of copious amounts of tea. 

She couldn’t pinpoint precisely when the tide had turned, but now she had more nights without nightmares than she did with, she only rarely jumped at loud sounds, and with every shadow she shook off she felt like she was more herself. When she looked in the mirror now, she could see the bumps of her spine and the lines of her ribs disappearing under new flesh and could only be retrospectively concerned that she had allowed herself to become so sickly. 

So she smiled and allowed them to pile on second helpings and refrained from making the comparisons to Molly which were always on the tip of her tongue. They would be horrified at the thought. 

She had been mentally preparing herself (and her stomach) for another twin onslaught when she entered the kitchen to see four plates instead of three sitting on the supper table, and Angelina Johnson preparing a bowl of mashed potatoes. Soft music was playing, and Hermione only had time to quirk an inquisitive eyebrow in Fred’s direction before Angelina was hustling them all toward the table, waving her wand to bring the rest of the side dishes floating along with her. 

They busied themselves with piling on food, and then the boys stuffed food in their mouths to avoid having to speak. The undercurrent of tension was thick, and she tried not to sigh at the two oafs sitting on either side of her, only oohing and aahing to show their appreciation for the food through their full mouths. Her elbow brushed against George, and she got a crystal clear jolt of nervousness that sent her heart beating faster. She switched her fork to her right hand, and let her left fall to George’s knee, sending as many calming thoughts as she could muster into their bond. Vague gratitude flowed back, and Fred winked at her from her right. 

“So, Angelina,” she began around a bite of roast, “what have you been up to lately?” Angelina began regaling them with stories from the pub she worked in part time, and of the children she was coaching in Quiddich, their fearlessness and talent. Over time the constricting unease around Hermione’s chest fell away. She took her hand off of George’s knee and let the conversation carry her away, learning more about Angelina in a single dinner than she had in the entire time they had both attended Hogwarts, and not missing when Angelina placed a casual hand on George’s arm whenever he said something particularly clever. 

They cleaned the dishes together, George and Fred busying themselves with making tea to go with dessert, and Angelina learned that Hermione was only a year younger than Fred and George. 

“We were almost in the same year! That would have been fun, though I don’t know that my class ranking could have taken any more hits,” she said with a wink. 

“That’s alright,” Hermione said with a laugh, “I don’t know that my heart could have taken being classmates with Fred and George!” 

“Oi! I believe someone is taking our names in vain Forge,” George called over from where he was heating the kettle. 

“I heard it Gred, unconscionable.” Hermione waved them off, and they both chuckled. Angelina finished washing a spoon and handed it to Hermione to dry. 

“I think you three would have been thick as thieves, and with your brain, they would have gotten into twice as much trouble.” Hermione acted affronted, putting a dramatic hand to her heart. 

“I’m wounded! I would have been nothing but a positive influence on them.” Her statement was somewhat ruined by the grin on her face, a cut and pasted copy of the ones on the twins in question. They both laughed at that, and Hermione felt a happy contentment on the edge of her consciousness that was coming from one of the twins, or perhaps both. 

“Seeing how close you three are now, I highly doubt it,” Angelina said, something slightly off about her tone, which caught Hermione’s notice. Angelina’s eyes caught hers and held them, something cool in her gaze. “Speaking of close, I saw you putting your hand on George’s thigh earlier.” Something in her brain sprung to alertness in a second, and her mind was filled with the catfights she had been present for between the girls in her dorm in Hogwarts, the ugly remarks sparked by an inappropriate glance toward someone else’s significant other. She gulped. Fred’s eyes flashed to her face. 

Angelina laughed out loud at her apparent panic. “Don’t have a kitten Hermione, I was only joking.” Hermione laughed weakly. 

“Don’t scare me like that, I thought you were going to pull my hair for touching your man, or something.” Angelina laughed again. 

“Don’t worry, George already told me about everything that happened between you and Fred during the battle, and the way it affects him. I’m rather glad for the three of you actually. We all needed help after... well, after everything, and I’m happy you could find it in each other. Besides,” she said with a salacious wiggle of her eyebrows, “you three might have a special bond but George and I share things that you certainly don’t.” George had the decency to blush, but he was smirking nonetheless. 

Angelina stayed for a few more hours, and a few rounds of firewhiskey, leaving only when it appeared that she would fall sound asleep in her chair despite the excellent conversation. She kissed George soundly before she left, ignoring the exaggerated wet sounds Fred was making from across the room. George sent his brother a rather obscene gesture, but seemed otherwise unfazed. She apparated away with a crack, and Fred went off to bed soon after, dropping a kiss on Hermione’s head and ribbing George as he went. 

“Don’t stay up too late thinking of your lady love, Georgie boy.”

“Sod off Fred.” He left the room laughing, leaving George and Hermione sitting in companionable silence, staring at the flickering of the fire, charmed to put off only light and no heat. Finally, Hermione couldn’t stand the question in the back of her mind, itching to be answered. 

“Why didn’t you ever say anything about dating Angelina? I had no idea.” George chuckled nervously before answering, running a hand through his hair, which was shorn much shorter now, exposing both ears.

“It’s been a confusing few months Hermione. I rather... well,” he flushed almost to the color of his hair, his freckles disappearing in the rosy tone. “I rather thought that I fancied you, and that made things with Angelina pretty bloody complicated.” Hermione could feel her own cheeks heating. 

“Fancied me?” she managed to squeak out.

“Well you were always touching me, just friendly stuff, but it was like electricity each time. Some real Witch Weekly stuff that,” he said with a grin. He let his arm fall from the back of the couch to touch her shoulder, sending the now familiar rush of magic moving under her skin. They smiled at each other. “Finally I plucked up the nerve to tell Fred about it, and he said he’d felt the same thing, but more, like fire and ice in his veins, sending the whole world spinning.

“I began to think something might have happened then, but Fred was half convinced that he had dreamed it up. Took quite a bit of needling to get him to touch you again, to prove it. When I felt that rush of magic through the bond, well, I knew.” In the back of her mind, she could feel the echo of Fred dreaming about something pleasant, reverberating through George. “So, once I had an explanation for all those inexplicably fond feelings I had been having for you, things became decidedly less complicated.” 

“Fond feelings?” she echoed. George chuckled again. 

“Yeah, Fred’s leaking through.” She shifted away suddenly, her chest feeling tight, causing George’s hand to fall away. She felt through the ghost of their connection, Fred stirring in his sleep. 

“Fred,” she breathed, something akin to panic roiling in her chest, making her feel too full, too much. 

“He hasn’t told you? Oh Fred, you knobhead.” He looked at her, almost tenderly. “He loves you Hermione, how could he not?” She was on her feet before she could think, ready to run if she only knew where to go. 

“Don’t we,” she gestured wildly, slicing her hand through the open air in front of her, “don’t I get any choice in the matter?” George looked at her steadily, his composure stark in comparison to the heaving of her chest. 

“Of course you do Hermione, of course you get a choice. It’s just that... well, who would you choose?” She slumped to her seat next to George on the couch, her heart pounding and her ears ringing and a single name springing unbidden to her lips. 

“Oh,” she murmured, “oh.”


	8. Chapter 8

When Hermione awoke, everything was precisely the same as it had been the previous morning, the light falling the same way through her window, illuminating millions of dust motes drifting through the air. Still, something had shifted to accommodate the knowledge that Fred loved her, and the air felt charged with energy like static electricity, pregnant with new possibility. She could hear voices and bustle from the shop drifting up through the floor, which meant that she had overslept, but she knew that Fred and George could handle the morning crowd without her. She stumbled to the bathroom, brushed her teeth (she still did it the muggle way, even after all these years - she was the daughter of two dentists after all) and then made her way into the kitchen for breakfast. 

She had made tea and toast, eaten, washed all her dishes, and had begun plucking the lint from her jumper before she realized what she was doing. She recalled the distinct image her of fist, poised to knock on the rough wood of a certain front door. As before, she shook herself and plunged ahead before the seed of doubt had long enough to grow. She pushed the door to the shop open and the sound washed over her like a wave. 

The shop was busy, but it wouldn’t be truly packed until the end of term, which was just over a month and a half away, when all the students would come rushing in to stuff their schoolbags full of treats and tricks to last them through the summer. With a start, Hermione realized that it must be nearing the anniversary, almost a year. She looked to Fred, who was chatting with a young group of witches, trying to sell them a handful of Daydream Charms, and a few of them were weighing their money in their hands, almost sold. She could remember his cold, pale face, smeared with blood, as clear as if it had happened yesterday. 

As soon as the gaggle of girls made their purchases, she swept up to him, catching a handful of his maroon jumper in her fist and dragging him up to the flat. George sent her an annoyingly knowing glance as she brushed past. However, once she got him up to the landing, door shut safely behind her, she found she didn’t know quite what to do. 

“Is everything alright ‘Mione? You’re looking a little, uh, peaked,” he asked, his expression battling between amused and concerned. 

“No, er I mean yes.” What precisely did one say to the person that they had quite recently realized that they were in love with? Oh yes Fred you see I’ve only just realized that our souls have been tied inextricably together by forces beyond human comprehension and I find I’m dead chuffed by the whole idea. 

Hermione Granger had long respected the power of words, but here they utterly failed her. Rather than say anything at all, she fisted her hands in the collar of his shirt and pulled his lips down to crash against hers. The surge of energy that seared across her skin almost distracted her from the way he tilted his head to slot his mouth against hers, the way his big hands pressed heat across the small of her back where he held her flush against his body. Her tongue pressed past the seam of his mouth, to lick into the heat of it, tasting the Butterbeer he had been sipping while he worked. The appreciative noise that growled out of the back of his throat sent an electric thrill through her, and she stretched on her toes to press closer, hands moving to his fiery red hair. 

He kissed her back in earnest then, tracing her teeth with his tongue, one hand moving to the nape of her neck. He nibbled on her lower lip which earned him an appreciative noise from the small witch held in his arms, and he squeezed her tight in response. Suddenly Hermione couldn’t stop smiling, even when it made her teeth clack against Fred’s, and she could feel his own grin as he pressed his lips against hers. She pulled back, and he rested his forehead against hers, his breath ghosting over her kiss-swollen lips. She felt an incandescent happiness bubbling up in her chest and it spilled over her lips as laughter. Fred smiled at her, and pulled back to look at her face, his pupils still blown wide, his irises a bright ring of blue. 

“I reckon we better tell George.” 

“I reckon,” she said with a grin, “he already knows.” She felt, rather than heard, George’s laughter, his gladness echoing through the both of them, and then the door to his mind firmly closing, leaving her alone with Fred. “That’s a good trick, you’ll have to teach me some time.” He laughed, and pressed a quick kiss to her lips with a familiar ease that warmed her all the way to her toes. 

“We’ve had a lot more practice with carving out some privacy every once in a while. It’s only common courtesy when a lad might be getting his leg over.” Hermione’s mouth opened in a gasp. 

“Frederick Gideon Weasley, were you under the impression that you would be ‘getting your leg over’? What a vile, ridiculous...” He frantically raised his hands in surrender, sputtering something about how he would never presume, when she couldn’t contain herself anymore and burst out in guffaws, doubling over when she took in the stunned expression on his face. 

“Oh you little minx.” He crowded her against the door, a wicked gleam in his eyes that sent another thrill across her skin and stilled her laughter in her chest. “That was quite good, but now I think I owe you a little payback.” He stooped to lick a line along the column of her throat, sending a delicious shiver down her spine, and then concentrated his ministrations on the soft flesh just below her right ear. His hands held her hips against his, one thumb finding the gap between her jumper and her jeans, and rubbing circles over the soft skin of her waist. 

“Fred,” she gasped when his teeth found a particularly sensitive spot near her clavicle, her right hand tightening in his hair, and her other squeezing ineffectually at his shoulder. He groaned, and the vibration of it echoed through his chest. 

He kissed her senseless, until her knees were jelly and she was leaning hard against the door behind her to remain standing and not sink to the floor. When he finally relented, he moved only so far away as to let her catch her breath, the air between them charged with electricity. Their connection was clear and bright, his thoughts and feelings flowing over her almost as if she had been feeling them herself – predominately self-satisfaction over the dazed look on her face. His own grin was so mischievous Hermione didn’t know whether to hit him or to kiss him again.

A knock on the door nearly scared Hermione out of her skin, and she jumped against Fred, elbowing him in the ribs in her haste. For his part, he barely moved, only letting out a wheezing chuckle, and catching up her arms to hold her against his chest. 

“Oi, put some clothes on! You two lovebirds better be decent when I come in.” Heat flamed up in her cheeks and with a squeak she pulled herself out of Fred’s arms and hurried into the kitchen to put the kettle on. As she busied herself gathering cups and cream and sugar she could hear muffled bragging and slapping of backs going on behind her. She pressed a cool cup against the warmth of her cheek and resigned herself to her fate; George was going to take the mickey out of her and there was nothing she could do about it. 

She turned back in the direction of the door, armed now with the steadying weight of a full mug, and managed to make it to the kitchen table before decorum demanded she look her attacker in the eye. George was still standing by the door, his face disturbingly serene, but his eyes alight with a wicked gleam that spelled only trouble. 

“Kids these days,” he intoned, his tone a rather disturbing mimicry of his mother’s, “skiving off and leaving yours truly to do all the work around here, just to sneak in a quick snog. Deplorable!” Her cheeks flamed, overachiever instincts virulent to the very last. Her head fell to the table with an audible thunk, and she let the twin’s familiar teasing and laughter wash over her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry that this chapter is so incredibly late, but I am in higher education and finals are rearing their ugly head. This story is nearing completion (maybe one more chapter?), so there won’t be much wait left. 
> 
> Also, I write a lot about tea. Does that say something about me? My personal headcannon is that wizards heat tea using a spell, but do so in kettles so as not to be rude to any others in the house who might want a cup.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, rating changed to reflect the least-explicit sex scene of all time, just to be safe. Thanks for the continued support, and I apologize for how slowly the updates are coming. Finals are terrible. I think only one chapter left, so stay tuned.

A constellation of freckles descended from behind his right ear and down his neck and shoulders that she connected with reverent fingertips. He was a sound sleeper, but still she was cautious to do anything to shatter her newly discovered serenity. His face was tranquil in sleep, and horribly vulnerable. She traced the scar bisecting his eyebrow, his lip. He looked too young to have scars; twenty-one was too young to have fought in a war, to have died. She forgot sometimes that she was young too, only nineteen, but she didn’t feel it. She still felt impossibly old some days, world weary. 

His eyes opened slowly, drifting to her face, their brilliant blue blurred by sleep. He contemplated her for a moment, face serious.

“So, it’s time then.” She nodded, lump in her throat that swallowing didn’t fix. They rose, somber, and dressed in silence, the sounds of raucous laughter and carousing drifting in from the street below. When she bent to slip on her shoes, she nearly fell, icy numbness erupting across her left side leaving her off balance. She lowered herself to sit on the bed, feeling shaky. Fred knelt next to her knees, taking her feet in gentle hands and pulling her boots on over warm socks, one foot at a time. When his task was complete, he gazed at her with such tenderness that she couldn’t help but kiss him, a simple brush of her lips over his that still sent her heart hammering in her chest. 

He pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, the closed circuit of their connection thrumming between them. “Ready, love?” She managed a weak nod, and he pulled her to her unsteady feet, keeping a firm hold of her arm. They apparated away with an audible pop. 

Not a moment later they arrived well outside the wards that surrounded the garden of the Burrow, close enough to see figures conjuring a long table in the sunshine and setting it for a Sunday meal. Fred squeezed her arm reassuringly, gave her a wink and then pulled her off towards the garden gate, only the slightest undercurrent of turmoil leaking through their bond betraying him. 

They pushed through the kitchen door into a controlled chaos, Molly bustling between two different pots which were stirring themselves over a low flame. Ginny was balancing table settings for nine in a rather precarious stack to be summoned out to the table, and Harry was doing his level best to simultaneously explain a stapler to Arthur, watch Teddy Lupin who was rolling around on the floor, and help his wife. When Molly caught sight of Fred and Hermione standing awkwardly in the landing, she abandoned her cooking with a snap of her fingers at Arthur, and hurried over to mother them both. She smoothed at Fred’s hair which was sticking up at the back of his neck, and pulled at his collar to straighten it. To his credit, Fred didn’t even bat an eye until she tried to lick her thumb and wipe at a smudge on his neck. 

“Alright mum! I think I’m presentable enough for family dinner. How about a hug then?” With a self-effacing laugh, Molly did so, before enveloping Hermione as well, smelling strongly of soap and sunshine. She pulled away and gently brushed one of Hermione’s errant curls behind her ear, holding her face in soft hands. 

“How are you dear? Eating better I see.” Hermione managed a watery smile, something deep within her chest aching to see her own mother again. Fred’s fingers wound their way through hers, a small reassurance that made the smile feel more natural on her face. The movement did not escape Molly, whose eyebrows shot toward her hairline, and her eyes flicked between their faces, questioning. 

Fred simply nodded, shooting a sharp glance at Ron who had just entered from the back garden with George, laughing at some private conversation they had been having. Molly said nothing, but placed one hand on each of their faces, her smile gentle and terribly glad. 

“Mum, the potatoes!” Ginny cried, and Molly rushed over to bat away an autonomous wooden spoon that was stirring valiantly, if ineffectually, at a pot about to boil over. Hermione detached herself from Fred with a grateful look, leaving him to catch up with his brothers while she helped levitate the massive stack of plates out to the garden. She could hear Molly barking orders at her gaggle of children to get all the food out of the kitchen and onto the table, and she moved further away from the kitchen to see if she could manage to skive off without attracting too much notice. Surely nine people weren’t required to assist? 

The pond was as she recalled, and she trailed her fingers through the cool water, letting the drops fall off her fingertips like rain, sending ripples across the still surface. The summer sun was pleasantly warm on her face, a gentle breeze keeping it from being too stifling. It had been overcast a year ago, dreary. 

“Hermione dear! Come eat!” Arthur called, and when she turned around the table was indeed set, the occupants vying for their favored seats in a familiar clamor. Fred smiled at her from a seat he seemed to have claimed by jinxing Ron with the jelly legs jinx, closest to the chicken, and an empty seat at his right. She dropped into the chair, her stomach growling in anticipation. 

“I don’t think you needed to jinx your brother just to get at the food a little sooner, I’m sure there’s enough for everyone,” she whispered, in mock censure. 

“You shame me! It was the last pair of seats left open together. Besides, I could filch food from any seat at this table.” Fred’s hand shot out to steal a dinner roll, only to be slapped away by Molly, who wasn’t even remotely looking in their direction. “Damn that woman,” he stage-whispered, clutching at his admonished hand, “she’s only gotten craftier with age.” Molly shot them both a wink before turning her attention back to Teddy, who was trying an assortment of tiny bites selected for him, hair changing color with each new morsel. 

A gentle clearing of the throat sounded from the other end of the table, Harry rising awkwardly from his seat, a small tumbler of firewhiskey gripped in his right hand. The assembled Weasleys (and Hermione) fell to almost instant silence. 

“As I am sure you all know today is the anniversary of...” his voice faltered a little, and Ginny took his hand. He smiled back at her, and began again, a little surer. “You all know what today is. I propose a toast, to the darkness we have left behind, the light before us that we fought so long for, and to those who weren’t given the chance to enjoy this bright future with us. Cheers.”  
Hermione found her own tumbler next to her plate, raised her glass, but couldn’t manage to make her voice work to echo the calls of cheers coming from all around her. The firewhiskey burned all the way to the pit of her stomach, but her fingers were cold where they fell into her lap. She loaded up her plate, nodding along to the conversations around her and ate what she was sure was a delicious meal, all of it tasting like ash in her mouth. 

They dispparated from the Burrow following much hugging and kissing of cheeks and promises to get together again, and reappeared in her bedroom with a pop. As if by prior agreement, they crashed into one another, his mouth slotting over hers with a fearsome possessiveness, his strong hands trembling where they held her crushed against him. She pushed up his shirt, tore at it until buttons strained and popped, scattering across the hardwood floor, desperate to feel skin on skin. They tumbled into her unmade bed together. 

He set her skin on fire, consumed her, worshipped her with lips and teeth and tongue until she flew apart under his ministrations, Fred’s name on her lips and fresh tears on her face. They came together then, like two hands clasped in reverent prayer, their connection an open wound between them. 

Only when they were both spent, sweat drying sticky on their skin, his head pillowed on her breast, ear to her heart, did Fred finally cry. He wept like a child, his heart beating a tattoo inside his chest that she could feel against her abdomen. When the tears subsided, his voice was shaky.

“I nearly died. Nearly never got to see that bright future that Harry was talking about. Nearly never got to spend it with you.” His fingers clenched tight on her hips, the ache of it a reassurance. She ran her fingers through his bright red hair, thinking about what kind of world that would be, what kind of Hermione would live in it. “I love you,” he whispered, faintly, ardently. Her fingers stilled in his hair, and he lifted from her chest to consider her face. 

“I love you too,” she found herself whispering back, watching the words change something in Fred’s face. He surged forward to kiss her, until she was drowning in him, the taste of his thoughts heavy on her tongue, echoing in her own chest. Thank you.


	10. End

She was working on filling a requisition, a prosthetic hand, her first, letting her mind wander while she considered how she could have the limb mimic natural physical movement at the will of the wielder; her fingers plucked idly at a metal puzzle George had given her, a series of interconnected rings that could be pulled apart and put back together if one discovered the trick. She thought that adaptation of a puppetry charm might be a solution, but the key to making the limb’s articulation instantaneous and effortless was evading her. With a frustrated sigh, she let the rings fall to her desk with a soft clink, next to the prototype appendage, which was currently resting on top of a copy of “Grey’s Anatomy” that her parents had given to her some years ago. It was little more than a skeleton, which could be manipulated in to any position capable of an actual human hand and wrist. She kept coming back to her room to find it making profane gestures. 

She gave up on her project temporarily, casting a weary eye over to the pile of requisitions which was gathering dust on her bedside table. Once she had a prototype for a new requisition the talented casters at St. Mungo’s could, usually, recreate her efforts (she took very diligent notes) to provide for all the people who had heard word of the service she was offering. But the Death Eaters had been vicious and creative in their torture and mutilation, in both this war and the last, and innumerable people were left with unique injuries desiring her help. Each prototype took time and significant research, even with the Twins pouring their creative energies into the bond whenever they spared a thought her way. 

Still, she was glad to help people and it certainly kept her busy. So busy, in fact, that she had been forced to ask to give up her shop duties. It had felt like a bit of a betrayal, since putting WWW back in business had helped her put herself back together. The Twins had been jovial about the entire thing. 

“Cor ‘Mione, we never thought – “

“-that you would stay forever.” George had finished, the thought bouncing between them in a way she was amused to discover she’d found familiar. “I think Angelina has been looking to leave that dive she’s been working nights in, she might be willing to help us keep this old place running.” Fred had jabbed his twin sharply in the ribs with a freckled elbow. 

“I’m sure that’s why you want her around Georgie boy, nothing to do with wanting to look at her bum all day.” This had quickly devolved into a tussle, and she had escaped back to her research, considering the matter settled. Angelina had started a few days later, and was helping out around the shop whenever she wasn’t coaching little ones in quidditch. Hermione had walked in on Angelina and George snogging in the supply closet twice before she threatened to jinx them into oblivion if they didn’t use a damn locking charm. 

Now they were all coexisting rather amicably in a flat made for two, especially considering that three of them were living in each other’s heads. Fred spent most nights in her bedroom (he would sometimes come in late in the evening, finding her still engrossed in her work; he’d listen to her talk or watch her work until he fell asleep fully dressed on the bed, and the sight of it made Hermione’s chest feel too small for her lungs) and George often left to go to Angelina’s for more privacy. It was untenable, to be sure, but Hermione was strangely content to let things be as they were for as long as she was able. 

With a shake of her head, she broke from her reverie, and turned her attention back to the skeleton hand on her desk, the fingers crooked in a ‘come hither’ gesture that Fred had left her this morning. She cast the puppetry charm again, this time adding an anti-clockwise twist of her wand at the end to increase the power of the spell; perhaps that might allow her to control the movements in tandem with her thoughts. 

It was some hours later before Fred pushed open her door, only a brief burst of emotion, longing burning through their bond, as warning that he was coming. He swept in with bravado, and she felt a gentle probe in her thoughts to catch a glimpse of her mood, before he pulled her to her feet and kissed her senseless. When he released her, she felt weightless, breathless, two brands burning on her arms where his hands had held her. He practically threw himself on the bed, giving her a salacious wink. 

“How is my favorite witch doing this evening? The research going well?” He was smiling, the picture of innocent attention, except for his eyes falling to her lips and gliding over her throat. She couldn’t stop her grin, as she quirked her eyebrow at the hand, and watched it reconfigure itself into a thumbs-up. 

“It’s a bit slow,” she began but he shook his head. 

“It’s brilliant, Hermione,” his earnest blue eyes burning across her face. “I can feel you’re nearly finished. I’ll just lay down for a quick kip, rest my feet. It has been a long day,” he said with a stretch, his back popping, one hand rubbing absentmindedly across his sternum. He moved about behind her for only a few moments before settling down, making quick work of his jumper and trainers before flopping down onto his back and covering his eyes with a freckled arm. 

The warm silence stretched between them for an unhurried hour while she set about writing down her notes for the day, to refresh her recollection later, and so that someone else might replicate her research. Her peace was shattered by the sound of thrashing behind her. 

Her eyes flashed to him when a muted scream tore through the calm silence of her bedroom. His face was shiny with sweat and terribly pale, his eyes moving rapidly under closed lids. She moved to him, slowly, whispering to him, reaching out with calming thoughts and trembling fingers. Not his first nightmare, but they never got easier. 

When she finally made contact his whole body seized like he was touched by a live wire, his chest heaving and his hands finding purchase on her arms like two vices, the knuckles bone white. His blue eyes shot open, dancing manically across her face before settling on her own. Immediately his fingers released her, his hands leaping away like she had burned him. 

Not a moment later they were tangling in her hair, pulling her in, and his face found its way to the crook of her neck. 

“Merlin, I’m sorry Hermione,” he breathed across her skin, his lips trembling against her. He was silent for a long time, his breathing evening out, warm puffs of air that ghosted across the juncture of her neck and shoulder, sending a shiver down her spine. “It was about the war, about some battle. Just some random Death Eater, didn’t even have a face,” he pulled away, flopped back against the bed, throwing his arm across his face in a parody of his earlier rest. “He got George,” he hesitated then drew his arm away from his face again, to look at her. “He got you.” She moved her way further onto the bed, put her hand over his heart, still beating hard in his chest. 

“I’m still here,” she managed to choke out, her throat suddenly thick with emotion. They looked at each other for a long time, until the intensity with which he was tracing the lines of her face made her too uneasy. She collapsed down onto him, her head falling onto his chest, the gentle thud of his heart under her ear a repeating promise, his fingers cool against the small of her back. Suddenly she was weary down to her bones. 

“It was always you, Hermione. Fuck,” he swore under his breath, his arms wrapping protectively around her. “Even before the war, you were something special. Beautiful and brilliant, and you didn’t take any shit from George and me. But you were with Ron and you seemed young then, a lifetime ago.” 

He sighed, and he sounded ancient, as old as she felt. “But that day, it was like when you’re a kid and you spin and spin and spin until you don’t know which way is up and which way is down, and the whole world is tilting and churning around you and you think you’re going to fall if you try to stand. So you just have to focus on a single spot in all the swirling chaos, and that’s what you were. When I touched you it was like everything suddenly snapped back into focus.” 

He carded his fingers through her hair, letting his hands trace the curve of her ear and the line of her jaw. “Letting you be alone was the hardest thing I have ever done, classes with Umbridge included. There was this pull, this magnetism that was drawing me to you, but mum talked about how quiet you were, how you needed time, how she hoped Ron could help draw you back into the world again. I nearly went mad, thought maybe I was already mad, and that dying had just knocked something loose in my head. When I heard that Ron had left the Burrow and you were still there, I didn’t dare hope. Poor George didn’t know what to do with me,” he chuckled, the puff of air disturbing a curl lying on her forehead, “he decided to revive the shop, and nearly shoved me out the door to invite you to join.”

She pulled her head from the comfort of his chest to look at him, his brilliant blue eyes burning out from his pale face, still beaded with sweat. He pulled her toward him, pressed a kiss to her forehead, to her nose, and finally to her lips, tender and painfully grateful. It made something twist deep in her chest, a wonderful ache. She laid back against his chest, curling her head back to press a kiss to the soft underside of his jaw. 

“I thought my heart was going to stop that day,” she whispered up to him, “it was like touching a live wire, like a burst of color after months of grey. You woke me up, and helped me find myself again.” He said nothing, but pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, and from that point warmth bloomed through their bond, washing over her until she was wrapped in adoration, in comfort, and finally in deep serenity. Slowly, wrapped up in one another, they drifted off to dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! So it took me 6 months, but I finally did it. Turns out grad school takes up a lot of your time. I'm not super happy with the ending, but I hope you enjoy it regardless. What started out as an attempt to write the Hermione/Fred story I always wanted to read ended up being a bit more than I planned for, and rather cathartic to boot. Enjoy, and feel free to reach out, I love hearing from people who enjoy what I wrote.


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